Watching the Waynes
by gummypanda99
Summary: Alfred, Bruce, Dick and Jason have a small, secret admirer. What happens when Tim becomes a part of the family that he's been spying on for such a long time?
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Batman does not belong to me - I only interpret and play with the characters.

FYI: Tim is eight at the end of this chapter, Jason is twelve and will be thirteen in August, Dick is fifteen and Bruce is thirty-four. Alfred's age is a mystery to us all.

* * *

At seven years old, Timothy Jackson Drake knew a lot of things about life.

He knew that when his parents came home, after months of travel, it was best to smile, have clean clothes on so that he would smell nice and be silent so that his mother would give him that one, special kiss on the head that left his scalp tingling pleasantly.

He knew that getting good grades was important because sometimes his father would forget to be angry when he was talking on the phone, glance down at the white piece of paper and spare a smile.

He knew that it was good to go to bed early because after a certain hour yells and shouts that he couldn't understand would fill the large, expensive house and Tim would be scared.

And lastly, he knew that when they packed their bags, closed the door shut with a bang and rolled out of the driveway that it would be silent for a very, very long time before his mother and father came back.

In the time in between, he liked to read his books, stare at the cartoons on television and watch the Waynes.

There were four people who lived in the mansion next to his house in total. He glimpsed them when he came home from school, walked around the backyard and peered through the fairly thick line of trees that grew between the properties.

There was an older man with white hair and a balding head who usually wore a suit and could sometimes be spotted watering the potted flowers at the side of the building on the marble steps. Tim knew that he worked for the Waynes, but had often seen the two sons of the house hugging or running circles around the man in an overly-familiar fashion that he never would have dared to do with the maids that his parents had employed. Then there was the younger son, whose name Tim was not sure of, with black hair that was so short that it spiked up naturally and had the kind of look when he walked that spoke of a confidence that Tim had observed in the intimidating, older boys in his school. He wasn't sure if he liked that Wayne boy too much, but he looked nice enough when he was talking to his older brother.

That was Dick, Dick Wayne and Tim knew his name because the younger brother called it so loudly when they were running on the grass that even he had heard it from where he sat so far away. The boy was much older than Tim and he looked at his broad shoulders with a sense of awe, wondering if he would ever look like that when he got bigger.

Not that Dick compared to his father at all.

Mr. Wayne, the master of the house, was as huge as a bull and Tim didn't know what you had to eat to grow up that strong. The father fascinated him the most and he would perk up to squint his eyes on the occasions that he came onto the lawn to play with his sons. They would run around with a soccer ball for hours and he would get a crick in his back from staying in the same position for such a long time, but he didn't mind – not really.

That didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could watch and catch the raucous laughter and the panting and the sheer life that came from his neighbors.

He only went inside when the maids called him in for dinner and he ate in complete silence, thinking about the family that lived next to him.

The women might talk about them sometimes too.

"What a charming man that Bruce Wayne is! So handsome-"

"- so young to be a father. He was twenty-seven when he took in the eldest, you know?"

"Men who adopt are so rare. So devoted, too!"

The fact that Mr. Wayne had adopted them had been a strange thing to wrap his mind around the first time he heard it.

They all looked so alike! How could they not be related?

But then, Tim would think about it and realize that the only physical features they really shared were black hair and white skin, although Dick's was pretty tan. He would think about his own father and how they didn't resemble each other at all and decide that looks really weren't that important after all.

There were rare moments when he would stop watching, even without being called in by his minders.

One evening in late November, he noticed that the lights were on in the side of the mansion and Mr. Wayne as well as the youngest son were standing on the steps outside, talking heatedly.

Tim stood in the cold, night air for a while, transfixed. He hadn't known that fathers and sons fought like that.

He had never fought with his own father like that – not once. But then again, this boy was older and Tim didn't know what it felt like to be that old.

All of a sudden, the arguing stopped and the boy that he had been so intimidated by was sobbing openly like a baby and Mr. Wayne wrapped his bear arms around him.

Tim held his breath and, for the first time, hated himself for looking, hated himself for being in the backyard when he should have been inside minding his own, stupid business. In fact, he started to feel angrier the longer they remained there in front of him.

There was a strange, childish urge to run through the leafy barrier between them and yell his lungs out - to tell them that his name was Timothy Jackson Drake, nobody ever hugged him, even when he was crying, and he liked hugs better than anyone else in the whole, wide world. And then, he imagined, Mr. Wayne would catch him when he started sobbing too and he would hold him until morning came if the boy told him to.

But, Tim didn't do that because it was silly, even in his own head, and he knew that Mr. Wayne and his son probably wouldn't care. So, he went back to his bedroom quietly that night and dreamt of a bear that kissed him when he wanted it to.

It was difficult to watch them during the colder months of December and January when there was a thick layer of snow on the ground, but Tim persevered somehow. He got out his binoculars, wrapped himself in a blanket with his stuffed lion, Leopold, and looked through the windows when he really couldn't stand the temperature anymore.

When Christmas came, his parents arrived with it, if only for a brief amount of time, and he almost wished that they hadn't.

The pair spent the entire holiday in what Tim called their 'silly mood' talking weirdly in loud tones and then low ones, going from insanely happy to ridiculously depressed in a matter of seconds and being clumsy in general, tripping over the carpets, accidentally hitting Tim in the head with an elbow and knocking over the tree after a round of eggnog. Tim didn't understand why they got that way or why they would want to, but he didn't like it and he wished Leopold could have talked so that he could tell him all about it.

Through March and April, Tim got nervous about his secret hobby. There were times where the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he was sure that he had been caught. Tall Dick, walking around by himself, would suddenly stop and turn to stare unseeingly into the small patch of forest, their eyes would almost meet and he would flee to hide like a frightened rabbit.

They couldn't know that he looked - that would be the worst thing.

It would have been so embarrassing that he couldn't have gotten out of bed ever again.

* * *

Tim almost got the shock of his life when Bruce Wayne rang his doorbell.

Maria came to him first as he was doodling on his homework.

"Mr. Wayne is here. He wants to talk to you."

He thought that his heart might beat out of his chest as took his time going down the staircase.

Sure enough, the man was there in the doorway, waiting for him.

"Hello, Tim," he said with a warm smile.

"H-hello," Tim said back unsurely, his head tilted all the way back to stare up at him.

"Your parents aren't here, are they?"

Disappointment gutted him in a single instant. He wasn't there for Tim - and, why should he have been?

"They aren't, sir," he replied, remembering his manners.

Mr. Wayne appeared to be immensely sad for a moment.

"Well, I just wanted to ask if you might want to come over and paint some eggs with us, seeing as it is Easter and all."

A fierce burst of joy lit up the pit of his stomach before it dulled.

Go? He couldn't go.

He didn't want to ruin the nice idea that he had held ever since he had been properly introduced by his father to Mr. Wayne at the grocery store when he was five.

The idea that the Waynes might like him if they got to know him better.

And, that wasn't reality.

The reality was that, if he ever got that chance, he would ruin it and they wouldn't like him, even if he told them everything - from which Pokemon was his favorite to the fact that the pungent aroma of brandy made him sick.

He refused to watch that happen.

"And, we won't just be sitting around with eggs all day either...I mean, that would be boring, right? We're doing other things too," Mr. Wayne said hurriedly, noticing Tim's expression. "The boys have all kinds of games planned-"

"I think I'll stay here, sir," Tim said quietly. "But, thank you very much for asking."

Mr. Wayne seemed to be at a loss for something to say. Tim was surprised when the man crouched down to his eye-level and spoke softly in his deep voice.

"Are you sure? I don't think that your parents would be upset if you came over for a little while, if that's what's bothering you."

And, he was so close that Tim could smell his cologne and it was so comforting that he wanted to go away with him forever, but he knew that he couldn't.

"I know they won't, Mr. Wayne. I just don't feel like going anywhere today."

Mr. Wayne's dark, blue eyes were sympathetic and he tried to memorize the image of them, looking at him. He stood up to leave and Tim felt a little like a part of him was dying.

"Some other time then."

The seven year old nodded fervently although he knew that he would say 'no' again.

"Happy Easter, Tim."

"Happy Easter, sir."

* * *

April passed by and he had another visitor on his doorstep in the middle of May.

"Hey," the youngest Wayne, one of the boys that he had been spying on for over a year, said to him.

Tim couldn't say anything - he really couldn't. The twelve-year-old scratched his ear and sighed, looking down at the seven-year-old and probably wondering why he looked so terrified.

"So, anyways, we've got an indoor, swimming pool -"

He gestured awkwardly towards the mansion.

"- because we're super rich and stuff and Dick - that's my bro' - and I were in there the other day and we thought that we would play some good, ol' Marc-o-Polo, but then there was this huge problem!"

He opened his arms dramatically wide to emphasize how big the dilemma was and Tim had the faint impression that he was being insincere and felt a little mocked.

"You can't play with just two people! So, Dick says to me -"

"Yes, you can," Tim interrupted, not knowing why because normally he wouldn't have dared.

The boy paused, startled, and then frowned.

"No, you can't."

"Of course, you can. You need one person to be Marco and one person -"

"You just _can't, _okay?" he got out between gritted teeth.

And, Tim shut up then because he wasn't stupid.

"Listen, do you want to swim with us or not?"

Tim blinked twice.

"No, thank you."

The other boy blinked rapidly as well and straightened up from where he was hunched over, talking to Tim.

"Well then, great...fantastic even. Have a _swell_ day, kid," he said before stomping off in a way that made Tim think that he didn't really mean it.

* * *

Two weeks later, the other Wayne boy came and Tim wondered if they were playing a practical joke on him.

"How are you doing, Tim?" Dick asked with an energy and a genuine friendliness that his brother had lacked.

"Fine," Tim replied immediately, not as fazed as he had been before.

"My adorable, little brother wants _me _to tell _you _that he can't control his temper and that he's _terribly_ sorry if he snapped at you," he announced cheerfully.

Tim couldn't help smiling. Dick was so charismatic that he could put anyone in a better mood.

"And, _I'm _here to tell _you _that Jason -"

Tim sounded out the name of the temperamental boy in his head and liked it.

" - is out of the house for the afternoon and that I'm getting _awfully_ lonely because there's no one around to play 'Super Mario' with me."

Panic struck him and he grimaced.

"I have...I've got homework to do."

Dick winked at him conspiratorially.

"So do I, but nobody has to know about that, do they?"

Tim felt really horrible and wished that he hadn't opened the door when the Wayne rang the bell.

"I-I can't. I just can't."

Dick's grin faltered.

"...I guess you don't have to. I mean, it's fine if you're not up to it."

"I'm...um...not."

* * *

Nobody came after that and Tim told himself that he liked that things had gone back to the way they were.

Summer came and his parents were still gone.

They were in Paris and, when Tim turned eight, he still felt seven somehow because he had heard all about the other kids in his class having big birthday parties and he didn't believe that he had gotten older when he was eating a neon-green cake all by himself in the middle of July.

He wondered if the next school year would be the same as the last and hoped that eight was a lucky number.


	2. Chapter Two

It all started in October with a comment from Dick.

"Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah," Bruce Wayne managed to reply while brushing his teeth.

His muscles were aching and they had just returned from a long Bat-patrol where they had succeeded in catching a couple of stray drug-dealers that they had chanced to pass by. It hadn't been anything too difficult, but it had been a busy week and the work was finally putting a strain on his body.

His faithful Robin was already in his pajamas, sitting on his father's large bed.

"The kid next door is really cute."

Bruce turned around and looked at the wistful expression on Dick's face.

"Who? Jack Drake's boy?"

His son nodded and Bruce tried to recall what he looked like.

"Why do you say that?" he prompted further.

Dick sighed and got up to do a handstand on the carpet, walking on his hands. It was a habit for the former circus performer to get into weird positions when he was thinking about something. One time when he was nine, he had been found sitting on top of a chandelier after Alfred had searched nearly two hours for him.

"Jay-Jay –"

Bruce couldn't help smiling at Jason's nickname. He knew that Dick had invented it just to annoy his brother.

" – and I were minding our own business, you know, playing extreme Frisbee and I was teaching him some new moves from 'Jiujutsu' too 'cause he's been bugging me about it and, all of a sudden, I look up and I see 'im, sitting there, on the other side of all of those big trees."

Dick flipped up to stand and started to laugh.

"I don't think Jason noticed – you know, he's so thickheaded he doesn't notice anything."

'Thickheaded' wasn't the right word to describe it, but 'partially blind' was better.

Jason had only started being trained a year ago and had not yet begun to develop his sixth sense the way Dick had already done after five years of personally being disciplined by the Batman. Aside from this fact, perception wasn't a natural talent for Jason and he usually missed what Bruce or Dick could see. This was another one of the many reasons why he wasn't allowed to go into Gotham with Dick, even for the lightest of hands-on training.

It made Bruce extremely nervous and he wasn't about to let a robin even an inch out of the nest until he was damn sure that it could fly.

"It was the cutest thing you ever saw, really. The kid is sitting on this 'Pokémon' blanket in his backyard with this fluffy lion thing beside him and he's eating pretzels and there's this big book in front of him, but I watch him a little more and he isn't really reading at all. He's watching _us!"_

It made for a sweet picture in Bruce's head and he had to agree with Dick. The acrobat twisted so that his head was hanging off of the bed as he flopped down and he crossed his arms under it.

"So, I swipe a little more at Jaybird just to show the kid who's better and, _god, _it's so nice to have a fan. It makes _me_ feel like Batman!"

Bruce had already finished washing up and walked up to ruffle his son's hair.

"What? Robin isn't good enough?"

Dick smirked and turned around.

"We both know who's cooler."

Bruce cuffed him at the back of the head before turning off the light and climbing into the duvet. Dick came in as well and, when he got close enough, Bruce tweaked his nose.

"You're becoming a real suck-up. Did you know that?"

Both having superior night-vision, Dick knew that he would see it when he batted his lashes dramatically.

"Anything for you, Daddy. You're the bestest!"

Bruce pushed his face away, groaning.

"Go to sleep, Richard."

Dick pouted for a second before punching a pillow and laying down on it. Bruce was certain that he felt silent snickers reverberate through the mattress.

It might have shocked the city of Gotham to know that the closest that 'Playboy Wayne' had ever come to a sexy, playful bedmate in the past several years was his hyperactive, snoring and sometimes drooling son.

It was a comforting habit for Dick. In the circus, he had slept between his parents and, after coming to Wayne Manor, he simply did what he had always done. For Bruce, it wasn't at all unpleasant – even when the boy kicked him sometimes or woke him up with garbling sleep talk that usually had something to do with defeating an evil marshmallow – and, when he adopted Jason at the age of nine, he caught himself hoping that the other child would adopt the same practice.

However, Jason was not Dick and, although he appreciated physical affection just as much as the other boy, he absolutely could not sleep with another person in the same bed. And, that was fine with Bruce, even if he enjoyed it immensely when Dick dragged him into their bedroom – willing or not - for Christmas or another important holiday.

His thoughts shifted back to Jack Drake. He didn't know the man very well, even though they were neighbors. Bruce was under the impression that he was hardly there and that the mother probably stayed at home with their son. He had once asked Dick if he wished that he had a mother and the boy had responded with 'But, Alfred's the best mother in the world!'.

He drifted off, thinking about Alfred in a pink 'Mother Knows Best' apron and a vague memory of a black-haired five-year-old smiling brightly up at him.

* * *

The Wayne Manor was filled with noise again as Bruce ascended the hidden elevator with his two sons, leaving the Bat-cave.

"God, Dick! If you had given me two seconds, I would have shown Dad that I knew where you were!"

"I gave you ten minutes, Jaybird. If you couldn't find me by then, I would have been waiting a full hour and - heh - let me tell you, even I get cramps from hanging from a metal rafter."

"_Dad!"_

"You could have given him more time, Dick," Bruce remarked calmly.

They had just finished two hours in the training room and Jason was frustrated. He had reminded the boy a thousand times that Dick had five more years of training than his brother under his belt, but it didn't seem to lessen the squabbles.

The elevator stopped, the door opening, and Dick skipped out singing Alfred's name.

Knowing that Jason wouldn't mind so long as Dick didn't see it, Bruce snuck in a consoling kiss to Jason's sweaty hair and slung an arm around his shoulders.

"We all progress at our own pace. I think you're doing great."

"Thanks," he mumbled, clearly unconvinced.

"You're just about at the same level that your brother was after a full year."

The twelve-year-old perked up the tiniest bit and Bruce would have said more, but they had reached the kitchen and Dick was too loud for normal conversation.

_"Mac-and-cheese, mac-and-cheese! My tummy is a-rumbling, Al-fred!"_

Jason covered his ears and scurried away while his eldest danced a ring around his unamused butler, who was currently cleaning the counters.

"Master Richard, while I do appreciate your lovely singing talents, I do insist that you lower your voice and ask for a snack like the proper, young man you most certainly are."

Dick stopped moving and wound his arms around the older man's back as the stern butler wiped in circular motions.

"Could I have some macaroni and cheese because I've been exercising for two hours and I'm as hungry as a bear, pretty please?"

"Yes, you may. Now, take a shower because I am sorry to say that you positively reek."

His son flashed an impish grin and then disappeared through the doorway. Bruce sat down on a stool.

"They're a handful, aren't they?"

"Only the best boys are, Master Bruce."

"Hmm."

"Would you also like some mac-and-cheese, sir?"

He checked his watch. It was two in the afternoon and he had missed lunch.

"That would be nice. Thank you."

Alfred put the sponge away and then turned around, a hard expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asked, surprised.

"I've been thinking about it all morning and I can't seem to get it out of my head. Where _are_ that boy's parents?"

Bruce shook his head, confused.

"Which boy are you talking about?"

Alfred hadn't looked this distressed since the day that Jason had accidentally broken his right hand, punching a wall out of anger during training, a few months ago.

"That little Timothy Drake who lives next door - we had a Butler's Association Meeting the other day, you know the one?"

Bruce nodded. Alfred seemed to belong to more secret committees than Batman did.

"Well, everyone knows about almost everything in this neighborhood and his name came up. Apparently, that wonderful boy is left all by himself for months on end and there isn't a thing anyone can do about it."

His eyes widened in disbelief.

"But, that's child abuse, Alfred. There's no way-"

"Oh, but there _is _a way, Master Bruce. As long as the child is fed, clothed, washed and educated, there isn't anything to say about it. They've hired highly capable help to do all of that so there isn't any reason why those parents of his can't fly off to wherever they want."

Bruce could hardly believe the claim. Why hadn't he seen it before? The kid was just next-door.

"They should be sued then. Someone should try to take him away."

Alfred shook his head.

"It would be a long and painful lawsuit, Master Bruce. It would be very hard to persuade the courts. It's a subtle case - there are millions of children with parents who don't necessarily care for them. Timothy isn't beaten, is in highly good health and shows exemplary performance in school, so they say. When you think about it in a different way, it isn't very different from sending your son or daughter to boarding school. Very little personal contact, but all of the care required for a child."

Bruce ran a hand through his hair and tried to think of an arguing point.

"Still...still..."

"And, theoretically speaking, even if you succeeded in taking away the boy, where would he go? Those orphan homes are in detestable condition...children are often abused there. How long would it take until he was adopted...what if he never was? How would you know that what you were doing was better for him, sir?"

He glared at the kitchen tile, frustrated with the universe.

"It isn't fair. None of it is fair."

The balding butler frowned and put down the box of pasta he had picked up.

"I'm sorry for bringing it up. I shouldn't have told you. I know how you feel about these matters."

Bruce was silent, thinking of all the things that he would have said to Jack Drake if he had been there.

"I know that you want to, but you can't kidnap all of the neglected children in the world and bring them to me so that I can feed them macaroni," Alfred said, smiling weakly. "It pains my heart too, but there are some problems that even Bruce Wayne can't solve."

* * *

He couldn't stop himself from visiting Tim the next day.

Bruce wanted to see what he looked like now, how he had grown.

He went at four in the afternoon and easily slipped into the trees to watch the boy. Even without his bat-suit, he was as good as invisible.

Tim was sitting on the lawn sprawled out on his Pokémon blanket, dotted with animated creatures, just as Dick had before described, and he didn't have a book or a lion with him this time. The baby fat in his features was in the process of disappearing and his chin had more of a determined definition to it. Bruce had no idea where he had inherited his unusually large, sky-blue eyes and dark lashes. He had met both Tim's mother and father briefly and he knew that there was barely a resemblance - like a cuckoo egg that had been dropped into the wrong nest.

In any case, the Drake boy was short, but healthy. He sat up with a straight posture in his black t-shirt and crossed his legs. Bruce almost felt like coming out of his hiding place to tell him to go inside because a seven-year-old had no business spending so much time outside in the chilly, early November weather of Gotham without a proper jacket.

But, he didn't because he couldn't seem to make himself move. The child was humming a tune to himself and had a sort of a silly, lopsided grin plastered to his face like he was thinking about a thousand bags of candy or something.

He looked at Timothy Drake, all by himself, and it was such a lonely scene that it burned itself into his memory and stayed at the forefront of his mind for the entire month.

Even Dick noticed that something was off and showed this by assaulting his father every time he entered a room. Bruce had to say that this method was very effective in jolting him into the present and he usually succeeded in dodging the attack.

Bruce watched Tim throughout December and discovered what the boy had been doing when he saw the lion's stuffed nose and the oversized binoculars pressed to the windowpane. And, what a surprising discovery that was!

It was oddly endearing to him to see so much effort expended in order to watch his family.

Well, he probably wanted to be friends with Dick and Jason, Bruce thought. It was a nice idea. Maybe, they could invite him over sometime.

He began a habit of checking in on Tim before he went out in his Bat-mobile, just to make sure that he was in his bed and everything was in order. If he lingered, it was just because he was being thorough and he had always been sort of obsessive-compulsive about tasks that he set out for himself.

When winter vacation neared and he began his mental check-list of all of the things that Santa needed to get done before the boys got home from school, he found himself wondering about what presents Tim wanted for Christmas and whether the boy was going to get them.

For that matter, how did the Drakes celebrate that particular holiday?

He got his answer when he did some surveillance out of simple curiosity, so he told himself, on the twenty-second - seventy-two hours away from the big day.

Simple curiosity turned into pure rage and he stormed into the kitchen, not sure what to do with himself.

Jason turned around on his stool, eating his lunch, and was shocked by the appearance of his father.

"Dad? Are you okay?" he questioned anxiously.

All of Bruce's words were caught in the steam of his fiery throat and he didn't want to unleash that on his youngest, who had yet to experience it.

Alfred recognized and handled the situation gracefully, ushering the indignant boy out against protests. When they were really and truly alone, Bruce let it out.

**"**_**I'll take him!**__ I'll take him this day, this hour, this second and I don't __**care**__ if it's against the law!"_

"Master Bruce," the butler began calmly, having had much practice with tantrums. "Breathe slowly and explain to me what this is all about."

_"They're drunkards, Alfred!_ Both of them - in the middle of the day, too! _God,_ I don't care...I don't care anymore. He _needs_ me, I know he does!"

Alfred pieced the story together quickly, being an intelligent man, and shook his head sadly.

"Oh, what have you done?"

"What have _I _done? You aren't seeing the point here. Aren't you _listening?_ Don't you understand?"

"I understand very well, sir. Perhaps better than you."

He began to pace the floor, breathing out harshly.

"I'll go and get him. You know I will. This is the last straw."

"Then, why aren't you over there right now? Why are you talking to me?"

Bruce turned and wanted to yell at the old man.

"_Because-"_

This time Alfred raised his voice and cut him off.

_"_Because you know very well that you can't and so you're making yourself feel better by frightening your son and throwing a fit in my kitchen."

He swallowed a lump in his throat, tried to open his mouth again and then couldn't. Alfred untied his white apron and strode across the floor to embrace the trembling mass of a man that he had raised.

"You can't have him. You're giving your heart away to the wrong, little boy this time, Master Bruce. "

His former caretaker leaned back and looked him in the eye.

"Take it back before it's too late."

* * *

He honestly tried to follow the advice.

In January, he didn't watch Tim in the backyard once or think about whether he had finished reading 'The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe' or not, but kept the nightly check-in's because he assured himself that it was strictly professional concern.

In March, he dropped the nightly check-in for good and stayed away from a certain side of the manor where he was tempted to stare at the spot in the trees where the Drake's house was visible.

In April, he didn't just have nightmares about Robin falling to his demise from a skyscraper or Jason being stabbed by the Joker in the hallways of his normally safe academy, but these included high-pitched screams that didn't belong to any age between twelve and fifteen and a real lion that devoured Tim whole.

It was then that he realized that it had been 'too late' all along and that it was stupid of either him or Alfred to think that they could have stopped the inevitable.

They symptoms had been there from the very beginning, but he had been too distracted to recognize the sickness when it started.

It was the same way it had been when he met Dick, wearing the pants that were too large for him, held in place by a plastic belt that was in poor condition and the yellow, striped shirt that read 'Monkeys Love Bananas', for the first time after the tragedy of his parents and his red cheeks were covered in fat tears and Bruce couldn't possibly look away.

The exact feeling he had when he saw Jason, every inch of him smudged like some street urchin, on the sidewalk with army camouflage Band-Aids on his arms, a red bandana tied around his forehead, a willful scowl on his face when he came closer and the first, cheeky words of 'Who the heck are you?' that cemented an impression that never went away.

He was in love all over again and it couldn't be controlled. It just was.

The only questions were 'What was he going to do about it?' and 'What was best for Tim?'.

He was at a point where he was willing to sue to have the boy and it didn't matter how long that took, but was that good enough?

Bruce would adopt Tim as soon as he was free, but would the child come out of the process psychologically undamaged?

Was that fair of Bruce to force him out of the only home he had ever known in such a brutal way?

Easter came and the man had to ask Tim over, regardless of his own conflicted feelings.

He was faced with a polite 'no' that puzzled him.

Did the seven-year-old want to be alone?

"Where were you, sir?" Alfred asked him when he came home, arranging the groceries he had bought.

Jason and Dick were at the breakfast table, painting what they called 'bad-ass eggs'.

"Tim's house."

Simultaneously, their butler dropped the celery he had been holding and Dick looked up from the bloody fangs along with impressive wolf ears that he had been helping Jason put onto his eggshell.

"You mean, from next door?" his son called.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred questioned cautiously.

"Relax," he muttered under his breath. "I just asked him whether or not he wanted to spend some time with the boys."

"Ah, good."

"Why were you there, Dad?" Jason hollered.

He left the kitchen and walked through the open archway to where they were sitting.

"I was there because Tim is very nice and I thought that he might want to spend today with us instead of all alone at his house."

"His parents aren't there again?" Dick asked with some concern.

"But, it's a holidayand it's always '_just us'_ on holidays," Jason enunciated in a slow manner, clearly upset by this idea.

"It wasn't 'always' that way," Dick corrected, annoyed that the twelve-year-old had interrupted his question. "Once upon a time, it was only I, father dearest and Alfred. You didn't exist."

"And, we're all very happy that Jason is here now - right, Dick?" Bruce reminded him gently.

The boy froze for a second, realizing that he had stepped on a sensitive topic, and hastily rectified the situation by pulling his slightly frowning brother in by the neck and mussing up his hair.

"Of _course._ I can't imagine what I would do with my life without you in it, my darling Jay-Jay-"

Jason snarled, batting Dick off of him, and he seemed satisfied.

" -I was just pointing out that traditions can change and sometimes they become better by adding another person to them. That's all."

"Yeah, I get that," Jason muttered. "This is different. Easter is a _family _day. Tim isn't family."

After caring for the former street orphan for the past three years and a half, Bruce knew that his son had a possessive streak. Dick had, had a strong one too when he was that age, but it had mellowed out fast with a new, little brother. It was both endearing and worrying that Jason wasn't sure how to share.

"Well, gee, thanks for informing me, Mr. Compassionate," Dick said, irritated now. "I had no clue, really. Now that I _know_ he isn't my long-lost brother, I can stop feeling sorry for the kid, who has parents that don't give a fig about him, too."

Jason stared down at the table and everything was quiet for a while. Bruce spoke up.

"Anyway, he said that he didn't want to come so I guess that it's 'just us' this year again."

Dick continued to finish the picture on Jason's egg and the younger boy watched with guilty, grey eyes.

* * *

"He doesn't _want_ to go swimming, okay? I asked and I hope you're happy."

Bruce looked up from the bills on his desk in surprise to glance up at Jason, who had just moodily burst through the door. It was after one in the afternoon and Dick was curled up in an armchair in the other corner of the study with his laptop.

"What - you really went? I can't believe it! Did you ask nicely?"

"Yes, idiot. You should have seen it - I was practically 'Mary-freaking-Poppins' today."

"What are you two talking about?" Bruce interjected.

Jason rolled his eyes and slumped against a wall.

"My _conscience _over there -"

He pointed at his brother, who beamed at him angelically.

"- kept whispering things in my ear like 'I can't remember what it felt like to have no family. Can _you, _Jason? I think talking to Tim will jog my memory,' and 'Oh, it's nine o' clock now - I bet little, neglected Timmy is crying himself to sleep as we speak,' until I couldn't take it anymore!"

An amused Bruce glanced at Dick, who shrugged.

"So - I go, I talk my head off and the ungrateful munchkin goes -"

He began to imitate what sounded like a four-year-old girl's voice.

"- 'no, thank you'. Like an English princess at some tea party!"

"Now, now, dear Jaybird. Just because you can't remember to say 'please' doesn't mean we _all _have to be uncivilized."

Jason's hands twitched as he raised them.

"I'm going to _kill _you, Dick -"

"He said 'no'?" Bruce asked, interested.

That was twice in a row. What was the reason?

Dick closed his laptop and sidestepped his fuming sibling.

"I'm sure that we both know why he said 'no', father. Jay, here, tried to be charming and somehow ended up threatening a seven-year-old to obey his request, like he tends to do."

"Did _not-"_

"Surprisingly enough, the brave, little boy managed to resist the tormenting bully and this is yet another reason why I think that Timothy Drake is awesome."

"Dad!"

Bruce put a hand on his cheek, leaning his elbow on the desk, and frowned at his son.

"Stop teasing your brother, Richard."

The scowling preteen stepped closer and he took advantage of the moment to grab his hand to squeeze it.

"Jason is very kind and we all know it. He wouldn't bully anyone."

Jason mashed his lips together and momentarily played with Bruce's thumb.

"Actually...I might have...been a tad...'aggressive', so to speak...at one point."

Dick smirked a little in victory, but his father shot him a look.

"Well, that's alright," he said softly. "We're all human. It happens to the best of us. What's important is that you made an effort to be nice to someone you didn't know and I'm proud of you for that."

Jason might have blushed the tiniest bit, although he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone in a million years.

"I guess if you want to get something done - you have to do it yourself," Dick called over his shoulder as he left the room.

* * *

"Tim really doesn't want to come over, Dad," Dick told him with disappointment two weeks later as he flopped onto the couch that Bruce was resting on. "I was sure that I had him in the palm of my hand and then he turned me down."

Bruce rubbed the top of his head where it rested against his thigh.

"I just don't get it. Doesn't he like us?"

His father let out a long breath.

"I honestly don't know, Dick. He's a complicated boy."

He traced a path from the center of his forehead to up and down the slope of his Robin's nose, pondering.

"_You _like him. You like him a lot."

Dick's stare was intense and knowing.

"And, how do you know that?"

"I've seen you in the branches of the tree line before. Crouched up there for an hour, too, like some huge-ass owl. I'm not stupid."

Bruce didn't say anything, waiting.

"I haven't told Jason. I would be a real moron if I did."

Dick caught his hand and they intertwined fingers.

"What do you think about having another, little brother?"

"I've got three years of experience already. I think I can handle a second one."

"Good to know, boy wonder."

"Is that what you're going to do? You're going to take him away from his parents and adopt him?"

He hesitated and then accepted a decision that he had been mulling over for days.

"I think that sooner or later Tim's parents are going to put him in a dangerous position and I can't watch that happen."

"They're alcoholics, right?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him.

"What? I get curious too. I watched the house once or twice when they were there in September. It looked like they had a problem, but I wasn't sure."

"Yeah, Dick. It looks like they have one."

"Oh."

His son kissed his palm and Bruce nearly jumped.

"What was that for?"

"I'm thanking you for not being an alcoholic."

Bruce kissed his forehead and Dick simply looked up at his tough, crime-fighting father for a full minute afterwards.

"And, what was that for?"

"I'm thanking you for being my son."

* * *

As it turned out, there was no need for Bruce's careful planning.

Jack and Janet Drake were found dead overseas before July was over.


	3. Chapter Three

The name of the social worker was Jenna, her flowery perfume was too strong and Tim couldn't understand a thing she was saying.

"They were in a cab on the outskirts of Paris and the other driver wasn't looking where he was going. The car rolled over into a ditch and...well...they're gone now."

"Gone?" he heard himself echo.

"Yes. I'm very sorry."

The room itself trembled and the universe was rearranged.

There were new facts in place of the old ones.

Facts such as there was no longer a 'Drake family' per say, but just one, sole Timothy Jackson that happened to have the name 'Drake' tacked onto him.

There was no one to wait for at the end of a month and no one who felt some kind of an obligation to get back to him after a certain period of time.

Nobody would spare a smile when he got a good grade and nobody would kiss him, even once, when they came home.

In fact, there was no home anymore - not one where he belonged, anyway.

His drinking, yelling, dancing, hopeless parents were gone off of the face of the planet, out of the atmosphere and away from him.

He wished that he could have asked them if they liked it better there.

The middle-aged woman tentatively placed a gleaming packet of tissues on the dinner table, seeming uncomfortable, and the eight-year-old wanted to tell her to get out of the house.

His eyes stayed dry and he was very still.

"What's supposed to happen to me now?" he asked, almost business-like.

A smarting, cruel part of his insides was happy when he saw that he had caught her off-guard and her thick glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose.

"Are...are you sure you want to talk about that right this moment?"

"Yeah - right now."

She said that there was going to be a funeral on the other side of the country, his relatives were going to be waiting for him and that she was going to escort him there by plane. His Aunt Jillian, the one that smelled like cats and usually looked like she was sucking something sour, had been the first to express interest in taking Tim into her home. No other person, so Jenna said, had offered something similar as of yet.

"How long has it been?"

"Since what, sweetie?"

He couldn't make himself say the 'd' word.

"Since Aunt Jillian and everyone else have known that they were gone."

"Ah...a week and a half."

It wasn't likely that there would be anyone else, he deduced. To Aunt Jillian's house it was, then.

His teachers told his parents that he was too smart, too mature for his age in the letters that he had never showed them and stored in a drawer in his desk. They even suggested skipping a grade or two, but Tim hadn't wanted to do that.

He saw the same message in the social worker's unblinking stare as she waited for him to break down in tears or do something vaguely expected.

"Is that it?" he asked, wanting to move his numb body to his bedroom so that he could sit there for a few hours.

"Um...yes, Timothy, that's it for today."

She left and he was relieved.

* * *

Throughout the trip to Washington and during the weekend of the funeral, he pondered over whether it was odd that he didn't feel all that sad over his parents being gone.

Was it because he hadn't loved them enough?

Was his heart cold and unnatural because he had been born weird?

Or was it because it had never felt like they were really his to have and that they had been gone for a long time already?

Tim couldn't say what it was, but when he finally did weep, surrounded by all of the other mourners and seated beside Aunt Jillian while they watched the coffins being lowered into the ground, he felt like a wretched, selfish son because he was only thinking about himself and how miserable he was going to be, living with all of the fat, hissing cats he hated forever in that cramped, stuffy house a million miles away from the street and surroundings that he had once called 'home'.

There was a bright spot to the day when he went back to Uncle Harold and Aunt Sue's, where he was staying temporarily, and he knew that Leopold was there, waiting in the middle of his suitcase. He got through the dreary dinner, thinking about how he would cuddle up with his lion and go to sleep.

The next day was just as horrible as the one before and he spent it listening to his future 'mother' talk about how much trouble his father had gotten into when he had been eight and how much more well-behaved Tim was. Supper was tasteless potatoes and tough, slightly burnt steak, specially prepared by her. She mentioned that she didn't cook much, but she might learn now and he wasn't looking forward to his diet for the next ten years or so.

Around nine, he was sent upstairs, but Tim was restless so he sat secretly at the top of the staircase so that he could make faces at the numerous adults when he knew they couldn't possibly see it and hear the words that were exchanged.

The conversation reached an interesting point after an hour.

"Who does this guy think he is anyway? I'm his father's sister - it's obvious who's going to win this game he's playing."

"What _I_ want know is, how does he know Tim?"

"We've been over this a hundred times, Abigail. Apparently, he was the neighbor."

"Isn't it ridiculous? He's so serious that he wants a real court hearing next week. It's starting to make me nervous."

"Shouldn't you tell the boy about it, then?"

"God, no! Wait until the last second, Jill. The man might still change his mind."

"It doesn't look that way, Freddie."

"What was the name again?"

There was coughing and a pause.

"Ah...Watson, Wescott...uh, Wayne! That was it - Wayne."

Tim put his earlobe to the cool, wooden floorboards and tried to stop the world from spinning.

Had he heard it correctly?

Why was Mr. Wayne in contact with his Aunt Jillian and why did he want to go to 'court' with her?

'Court' was where lawyers and judges worked, right?

He tried to make sense of the clues that he had been given, but his head was tired and he ended up nodding off with Leopold instead.

* * *

Tim watched all of his relatives go back to their respective homes, one by one, from Monday until Saturday and played boring, lifeless games of chess with the husband of his mother's sister, Harold, who had a tendency to sneeze all over the pieces.

All the while, he kept the mystery of Mr. Wayne in the back of his mind and knew that time was drawing near to the _event_ that had been spoken of.

On Sunday after church, they finally had a talk about it.

"Tomorrow, you're going to a special meeting with someone."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to tell him how you feel about me and you're only supposed to tell the truth so I know you're only going to say nice things. Right, Tim?"

He nodded and she kissed his cheek, but his brain was already clicking together puzzle pieces, rapidly making connections and it was as if a lightbulb turned on.

There were a few things he was certain of.

Firstly, the person he was going to talk to had some sort of authority over whether Aunt Jillian was going to be his mother or not.

Secondly, Mr. Wayne had somehow directly caused this meeting to happen and that was why she was angry at him.

And thirdly, Tim didn't want to say _anything _nice while he was there if he wanted to say goodbye to bad, cat smells for the rest of his life.

* * *

He got up on Monday morning in a very cheery mood and dressed in his favorite maroon 'Pikachu' shirt, humming. Uncle Harold drove him to a large building after a distasteful breakfast that he gobbled up without one grimace and gave some parting words before Tim was ushered in by men in suits.

"Your aunt is a wonderful lady. Don't make her look bad."

Turning his back, Tim grinned until his lips were going to split and shook his head slowly.

There was a man with a pad of paper at a metal table when he reached his destination. They shook hands like grown-ups and the questions started.

"Do you know your aunt well?"

"Not really. I've visited her only two times before and that isn't a lot."

"How do you feel about living with her in the near future?"

"Very unhappy."

"Why is that?"

"She has too many cats and I think she's crazy."

"Why do you think she's crazy?"

"She lives with five cats."

"Is she nice to you?"

"No. She's slapped me five times already."

The slaps were a total lie, but Tim was willing to say anything at this point. Mr. Greene, so he had introduced himself, blinked slowly and frowned.

"Why?"

"I dropped her purse once and I think she just felt like doing it the other days."

"Has she fed you breakfast, lunch and dinner this entire, past week?"

"She forgets a meal sometimes."

"Does she raise her voice at all when she speaks to you?"

"She screams the whole day."

The man squinted and watched him for a while as if trying to read his mind.

"Are you telling the truth, Timothy?"

"Of course, sir."

It went on and on like that.

By the end of his aunt's segment of the interview, Tim was very satisfied and Mr. Greene looked slightly frustrated.

"Do you know the Waynes?" the man questioned after a short break.

"Yes," he replied cautiously.

"Are they nice to you?"

"Very, _very_ nice, sir."

"What do you think about them?"

And so, Tim told the man the truth this time - about how he thought that Mr. Wayne was the kindest, coolest adult on earth and was so wealthy that he slept on mountains of wads of cash every night, how Dick was funny, athletic and charming and he wished he could grow up to be like that and, lastly, how Jason wasn't as scary as he first appeared to be because he had even apologized to Tim after being angry.

The interviewer smiled and he felt that he had done something right.

"What would you say if I told you that they were here today?"

"You're a liar," he blurted out because that was the first thing that came to mind.

Mr. Greene laughed.

"I'm not and they _are _here_. _Would you like to see them now?"

It wasn't as if he could say 'no' and he floated, rather than walked, with the man to a room on the bottom level, his palms sweating madly. His guide opened the door and there they were - all three of them in the flesh.

Dick hopped up immediately from sitting cross-legged on the carpet and shouted his name excitedly. Jason, standing in the corner, had a shy and not at all displeased expression on his face. Mr. Wayne - well - he couldn't look at Mr. Wayne because it was just too embarrassing.

Dick enveloped Tim in a fierce hug that made him feel like he was being smothered in a good way.

"Timmy! I can't believe you're here - we thought we'd never see you again."

Tim opened his mouth, accidentally got a taste of the brand of detergent on his shirt, and managed a muffled 'why'.

"Because you disappeared all of a sudden, dummy! We were worried at first."

"Let go of him, idiot. He can't breathe."

Dick released him and he saw that Jason had placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"It's nice to see you, Tim," Jason said and actually flashed his sharp, white canines in a smile.

"What-what's going on? Why are you here?"

"Boys," Bruce Wayne's voice reverberated against the four walls. "Could you leave us alone for a second?"

There was no discussion or hesitation as they filed out, like soldiers commanded by their general.

"Do you want to sit down?"

He gaped at the patriarch, in jeans and a polo shirt, and didn't move.

"Come here," the man beckoned and Tim was compelled to go to the large, outstretched hand, calling him.

His legs trembled as he landed on the hard, plastic two-seater, so close to Mr. Wayne's warm form that he knew he wasn't dreaming.

"Did you talk to Mr. Greene for a long time?"

"Yes," he squeaked.

"Was that hard or unpleasant?"

He couldn't look away from the man's gaze - it held him in a fixed position.

"I don't know."

"I'm sorry about your parents. The same thing happened to me when I was your age."

His back straightened at this tidbit.

"They got into a car accident too?"

Mr. Wayne's fingers were gentle as they brushed momentarily through the strands of his hair and Tim almost sighed from contentment.

"Something like that."

The clock ticked by loudly and he still didn't understand although something in his gut told him he already did.

"Why are you here, sir?"

"Oh, Tim," the man murmured and it almost sounded fond to the boy's ears. "You don't ever have to call me 'sir'."

He didn't say anything, waiting for the answer to his question.

"I'm here because you're special."

Tim was confused and didn't think that was true.

"You're so special that two, different people want you so badly they're willing to fight each other for it. Your aunt wants you -"

He paused, gauging Tim's reaction.

"- and _I_ want you."

Logic deteriorated and his mental capabilities halted completely. There wasn't a single thought that ran through his mind - only a blank, white space.

"I want to bring you home as my son."

A grey, blurry question mark formed, but nothing more. He wasn't sure if he was still breathing.

"Hey..."

Careful hands touched his cheeks, tilted his neck and patted his pale face, assessing his condition.

"Stay with me, now," the low order came. "Don't pass out."

Tim couldn't obey though and he fainted right in the middle of the visitor's room into Bruce Wayne's chest.

* * *

"Geez, Pops! What did you do - knock him out?" Jason demanded when he saw his father carrying the limp boy.

"He's just a little shocked, that's all," Bruce assured, feeling a headache coming on.

"Poor baby bird! My poor baby bird," Dick lamented, touching every part of Tim that he could reach. "Let's just give the government the slip and take him to Gotham already."

"You know we can't do that, Richard," Bruce growled, having lost his patience. "Could you do me a favor and be serious for two seconds?"

Dick dropped the act and frowned.

"In all honesty though, I wish we could tell that stupid aunt to back off because he's ours now."

Bruce sighed and hoisted up his light load.

"Me too, Dick. Me too."

They searched for the social workers who were in charge of Tim and reluctantly handed him away. There was a split-second where Jason reached out to touch the boy's hand before they were told to leave and it moved Bruce.

When he had initially informed his son of the plans that involved Tim, a few days after he had talked to Dick in May, Jason had been rattled and perplexed.

He remembered the then twelve-year-old's half-shouted words.

"Why do you like the dumb kid so much, huh?! What's so great about him that he has to change everything around here? Aren't Dickie and I enough? What has he got that we don't?"

Bruce had explained that he didn't want to adopt Tim because Jason was lacking in any way, but the outrage was still there.

"I know that we're supposed to pity him and everything, but this is too much! _Brother?_ I've only got one of those and his name is Richard. Do whatever you want - I don't care."

The hostile attitude softened over the weeks and, when Tim's parents died, Jason was just as frantic as Dick over where the little boy had gone.

"He isn't _there, _Dad! He isn't in his house, _no one_ is - _god_, what happened?"

He hadn't complained once when they celebrated his thirteenth birthday in Seattle and it was safe to say that he had warmed up to his prospective sibling.

Dick had been insanely joyful from the start, picking out nicknames and thinking up ways to play with someone several years younger than himself.

Alfred had taken the news easily and, while they were in Washington, was prepping the manor like a mother hen waiting for the arrival of a new chick.

All in all, they were more than ready to accept Tim into their lives and Bruce hoped that the process of winning him went by fast.

* * *

When Aunt Jillian drove Tim back to the house, he was in a daze. He didn't answer the thousand of nervous, high-pitched questions that she shot at him and stared out the window.

They went out to a restaurant to eat because she thought that he deserved a reward and he was only the tiniest bit guilty that he had told Mr. Greene about made-up slaps. There was a sense of awkwardness that loomed over them for the next couple of days and no number of attempted bonding activities could make it go away.

There was a new mantra that he repeated to himself over and over again.

'Mr. Wayne wants me, Mr. _Wayne _wants me, Mr. Wayne wants _me...' _

The phrase never failed to cause a warm, tingling sensation in his stomach. He believed that the man had meant what he had said, even if he didn't know why.

_Why_ Mr. Wayne wanted him was unclear.

Was it because he had looked like fantastic 'son material', whatever that was?

Had Mr. Wayne had the sudden urge to add someone exactly four feet, three inches tall to his family and Tim, just next-door, was convenient?

He didn't know and he almost didn't care. Tim was _wanted _and that was such a marvelous revelation that he gave up the 'why'.

Tim watched his aunt carefully and, every time she made a call or received one, he made sure to be in the near vicinity so that he could eavesdrop. She also began to snap at him in those days so Tim retreated when he saw that he needed to. He could tell that she wasn't happy and he took that as a sign that his 'Escape from Cat-ville' was going very well.

From all of the difficult spying and sneaking Tim had been performing, he finally gleaned a golden nugget one night. He was crouching behind a massive, potted plant when Aunt Jillian, Aunt Sue and Uncle Harold were all gathered together.

"...you know, I'm so grateful to you for letting us stay here."

"No problem, Jill. We're family, aren't we?"

"I really hope this whole mess can wrap itself up soon. Mr. Tiddlebum always gets sick when I'm gone for too long."

Tim wrinkled his nose, thinking that Mr. Tiddlebum deserved it because the evil, overweight creature had scratched him the last time they had met.

"Isn't the final court hearing in two days?"

"Don't remind me - I detest public speaking. The last one almost killed me."

"Tim didn't notice when you left last time, did he?"

His lips formed a perfect circle as he remembered the mysterious absence of her and Uncle Harold on Thursday.

"No, I don't think he did."

"Mr. Wayne is a very charismatic fellow. He almost won _me_ over with his speech about adopting those orphans."

"Yes - well - that's what's working against me, isn't it? The damned experience in child-rearing and the siblings for Tim and -"

There was a bitter, ugly laugh.

"- the wads and _wads _of cash in his wallet! I'm sure that he pays his lawyer well."

"I was shocked when the child psychologist said that Tim disliked you."

"He said that there was an obvious, preference problem or something, right?"

"That's what you get in this world for being generous to ungrateful orphans."

He felt that he had heard all he needed to at that point, but he couldn't move for two more hours. When he was free and climbed onto his bedspread, the glassy, black beads that served as his lion's eyes asked him many questions.

"We're getting out of here soon, Leopold! You just wait - Mr. Wayne is going to come get us."

The stuffed animal seemed doubtful and Tim bopped him on the nose.

"What do _you_ know? You're just a lion."

He turned over on his side and then, a few minutes later, kissed Leopold as an apology for being so mean.

* * *

When Aunt Jillian and Uncle Harold left for the courthouse, Aunt Sue refused to admit to where they were going.

"How long is it going to take?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Timothy."

"I mean, when will it be over?"

"Like I said, they went to have a cup of coffee with a friend so I'm not sure."

Tim huffed in annoyance and stalked off to Leopold, who was watching television.

"I don't know how you can look at 'Power Rangers'," he muttered under his breath so that Aunt Sue wouldn't hear him. "Our lives are at stake here."

Leopold didn't respond and, once again, Tim wished that the inanimate object could have been a real, talking lion. He knew that they didn't exist, but still.

"We're going to be okay," he mumbled to himself, putting an arm around Leopold's mane. "Even if Aunt Jillian takes us, I won't let the cats scratch you."

An hour passed, then another and one more. He fidgeted, bit his cheek and flicked through channels.

As hard to understand as it was, there was a part of him that didn't want to be adopted by the man that he idolized.

His previous fears and insecurities were still very much a part of his core and he filtered through a thousand different scenarios where the whole family decided that he wasn't cut out to be a 'Wayne' after all. He had been rejected before and he had survived, but Tim wouldn't be able to take it if it happened again.

Aunt Jillian was safer in many ways. He knew that she didn't love him and he didn't need her to either. Her motives and actions were clearly understood and that was what made her tolerably unpleasant.

However, Tim _needed _Mr. Wayne to love him - like he would just die if he truly discovered it was otherwise. And, he didn't understand Mr. Wayne in the least and that was dangerous.

He was tortured in both directions so when his relatives returned, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

Stock-still, he observed Uncle Harold as he took off his shoes. The man cast Tim a disbelieving once-over.

"Hmmph! Look at you...in those dirty socks with that old lion."

"We're back," his aunt announced dully, shuffling in.

"The son of a billionaire - ha! - I don't believe it. I hope you have a nice life with your new daddy, Timbo. By god, you've got some luck..."

Aunt Jillian gave his uncle an agitated look and Tim's heartbeat went into overdrive. He jumped up to stand, his blood pumping.

"You - you lost? I'm...his now?"

Aunt Jillian was silent and Uncle Harold cackled.

"You betcha, kiddo. You've got 'Wayne' stamped all over you - as of the last hour. Your auntie didn't stand a chance."

"Shut up, Harry," Aunt Jillian hissed and went upstairs.

"What does that mean?" his wife whispered, helping him out of his blazer. "Is he going to pick up the child tomorrow or...?"

"No," he grunted then began to talk directly to the boy, ogling the two of them. "Your 'Papa' is pretty eager and he wants to get you today. In an hour or two, he said. So, my advice is to pack your things because you aren't coming back here again."

He raced upstairs, taking three steps at a time, his mind everywhere and nowhere all at once. Joy and terror mixed together in a potent concoction.

Shirts, pants and underwear flew into the suitcase haphazardly. He tossed his blanket onto the bed and dragged his luggage out.

Uncle Harold looked at him in amusement when he darted down and sat on the sofa with his carry-on - ready.

"You might want to put your shoes on. You don't want to make your daddy carry you to his car, do you?"

Every single word that came out of his uncle's mouth was said in a mocking, slightly unkind tone, but, deep inside, he felt that the man was glad for him somehow and didn't wish him any ill. His father's sister made her way down the steps, towards him, and Tim didn't know what to do.

"I won't be here when Mr. Hotshot arrives," she addressed the adults in the room. "I'm going out."

Her car keys jingled as she took them out of her pocket.

"Goodbye, Timothy," she said, nodding her head at him once.

Just like that, she was out of the front door and Tim didn't understand why she had wanted him so much in the first place.

His uncle pushed a breath out between his lips and then walked to the fridge to get a chilled, beer bottle.

"It's been a long, damn month," he heard him say. "I'm glad that it's over."

Tim patted Leopold on the head. He was proud of the both of them for sticking through the ordeal.

'I told you,' he said in his mind. 'We're going to be just fine.'

* * *

Author's Note: Well, that's finished. I had a hard time deciding how mature Tim was going to be for an emotionally neglected, child genius and I'm happy with the balance I've found. Just to clarify, in case any of you didn't get it, Tim doesn't actually believe that Leopold can hear him - it just comforts him. The next chapter is going to come sooner or later. I don't know when. Toodles! :)


	4. Chapter Four

Only a few words were spoken when Mr. Wayne showed up at the doorstep, decked out in his usual suit-and-tie outfit.

One cordial 'Hello' and a sarcastic gesturing towards a frozen Tim in the far corner of the hallway with a suggestion of 'Take the kid already' made up the whole greeting between his new guardian and Uncle Harold.

"Are you ready to go?" the man asked, filling up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders.

Tim forgot how to nod and did something strange with his fingers instead, but Mr. Wayne understood somehow.

"It was generous of you to give him a place to stay at a time like this," he said, addressing Tim's uncle again. "I really appreciate it."

Uncle Harold shook off the gratitude with a shrug.

"No problem. No one else was going to do it."

The skin around the taller man's eyes tightened for a moment, but he still shook Harold Thompson's hand.

"Thanks, anyways."

Tim had made his way to the two adults at that point and was expecting someone to inform him at any moment that he could not simply leave the house that day with his next-door neighbor.

It seemed so impossible that he was no longer chained there. Something was bound to go wrong the minute he stepped outside.

"I can take that."

He turned quickly and saw that Mr. Wayne had leaned down and was gently tugging the big, heavy suitcase as well as the backpack away from him. Reaching for the small hand that was now free, they made eye contact and Tim felt like he should smile because that was what a normal, eight-year-old orphan would have done after being adopted, but he was too uncomfortable and nervous to fake it.

Fortunately, Mr. Wayne did enough smiling for the both of them instead and grasped his fingers firmly.

"Say goodbye, Tim."

He looked up at his uncle's bushy mustache and thought that he would miss secretly making fun of it in his mind.

"Thank you for letting me stay here," he simply said, wanting to mimic the previous, polite behavior of the adult beside him.

"Yeah," Uncle Harold snorted. "Just do me a favor and get out of here, kiddo. Your auntie might come back if you don't and, if she meets your 'friend' here, I don't think _anyone_ is going to be very happy."

Tim reckoned that was some good, solid advice and might have chirped out a 'Yes, sir!' if Mr. Wayne hadn't cut in.

"We'll be on our way, then."

The two men, who had only the boy between them in common, nodded to each other in a sort of silent parting and Tim was led out of the house as the door shut. It was a strange feeling to hold hands with someone - he had never really done it that often - and Mr. Wayne's warm, careful ones were probably the nicest kind to hold onto.

There was a limousine and a chauffeur waiting for them on the side of the road.

It made for an odd picture in such an ordinary neighborhood and Tim watched as the trunk of the car was opened so that the driver could put his baggage into it.

He glanced back at the house while he waited, seeing it in it's entirety, and found that it seemed smaller and less intimidating than when he had originally come to it.

"Does it make you sad to leave?"

He was startled by the question and realized that Mr. Wayne had been watching him. His eyes widened and he shook his head fervently, suddenly terrified that the man would decide to abandon him there if he actually did feel something.

"No!"

The man actually laughed - the heartfelt, shaking one that he had always wanted to listen to up-close instead of observing through his binoculars.

"Don't make a face like that - it's okay if you do, you know. You're allowed to."

"I-I don't feel sad."

Mr. Wayne crouched down in his fancy suit and ruffled his hair, touching him familiarly like he had in the waiting room the week before.

"Are you sure? They're your relatives, after all."

Close, so close - as if they usually talked like that. As if they knew each other so well when they really didn't.

"Aunt Jillian only talks about her cats and my Dad when I don't want to talk about him, Aunt Sue doesn't say anything to me and Uncle Harold is only nice sometimes."

He rubbed his nose and looked at the house again.

"I really don't like it here. It's true."

"I believe you," Mr. Wayne said in a more serious tone. "And, you don't ever have to come back if you don't want to. It's also okay if you change your mind and want to visit someday. Either way, I'm fine with it. I want you to know that."

He began to walk once more, pulling Tim towards the limousine.

"In any case, your brothers are waiting for us and we've got a plane to catch so we should get going."

_'Brothers'. _Now, that was something that Timothy Drake had never had before.

He still didn't trust himself enough not to screw the 'new family' situation up and, if Bruce Wayne didn't seem to dislike him yet, it was likely that his siblings would see his true colors much more quickly.

The boy resolved to just say as little as possible if Jason or Dick got near him or perhaps even try to avoid them. He couldn't ruin this - not yet.

The trip took a while and Mr. Wayne talked to different people on his cellular for most of it. Tim got a heavy pang in his lower chest as he was sharply reminded of the deceased Jack Drake, but he ignored it and stared out the window, knowing that it would go away. The new connection that Mr. Wayne and his father could possibly belong together in some sort of category or cupboard in his brain left him a little colder than before.

"Have you eaten, Tim?" he asked as he got off the phone with someone named 'Alfred'.

It was getting dark and he had missed dinner.

"No, sir."

Mr. Wayne blinked and then appeared amused.

"Do you remember what I said before? None of this 'sir' stuff, all right? I know that you have good manners and it's nice that you have them, but you don't have to use them on me - in fact, _especially _me. I get enough of that from the people who work for me, you see. I've tried to ask them to stop too, ever since I was younger, but I can't seem to get them to do it either."

He grinned and touched the boy's hand again to squeeze it.

"It would mean the world to me if I could at least convince _you_ to not say it."

"Okay," Tim said quietly, looking at the scenery again.

"We'll have something on the plane so don't worry. I would have stayed another day, but we're in a bit of a hurry to get back to Gotham."

He felt that he shouldn't ask - adults rarely answered his questions - but a word slipped out on it's own.

"Why, s - "

He stopped himself at the last moment and Mr. Wayne looked at him attentively.

"Why?"

"You can only stay away from work so long before things start to go hay-wire without you. I've been gone for quite a while."

He wasn't sure what Mr. Wayne did for a living other than be wealthy and walk around his enormous mansion, but Tim nodded and tried to give the impression that he knew exactly what that meant.

Their car pulled up to a well-to-do hotel establishment in the middle of the 'Emerald City' area and the Wayne boys were standing outside with two men, holding fashionable luggage. Tim noted to himself that the brothers seemed to be bickering as the car was being loaded again and was relieved that the attention might be kept off of him for a while.

The door was yanked open suddenly and a surly Jason as well as a strangely peeved Dick piled in on the opposite row of seats in the limousine. The black converse shoes on the fifteen-year-old's feet accidentally knocked into Tim's legs as he situated himself in the small space.

"Sorry," he said with only a part of his usual peppiness.

"S'okay," Tim mumbled back, awkward.

The car started and they rolled forward, once again seeking a new destination. Mr. Wayne rubbed his temple repeatedly and observed the duo for what seemed like the longest time - no words needed. As an uninvolved party of this staring contest, Tim couldn't stand the tension and wished that they would knock into a large road bump of some sort to break them out of it.

"Do I want to know?" the head of the Wayne family questioned.

It was only then that Tim realized just to what an extent the man's voice had been gentle towards himself previously. Now, all of that gentleness had vanished and he didn't ever want to do something to make Mr. Wayne speak like that.

Dick barked out a bitter-sounding laugh.

"No. You _really _don't."

Jason played with a rubber band on his wrist.

"Not now, anyway," Dick added, glancing at the eight-year-old in the car.

"Later," Mr. Wayne settled, effectively putting an end to the topic.

Tim was ravenously curious about all of this, but knew that he couldn't exactly demand that they continue. The drive was short this time and the chauffeur decided to turn on the radio, which helped to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere.

The airport looked the same way it had been when he had come out of it being accompanied by Jenna. The fact that when they got out of the limousine he was standing in the same spot that he had been about a month ago made his heart lighter for some reason. It would have been cool if he could travel back in time and reassure the younger Timothy Drake that he was going to come back in only a few weeks, that he wasn't going to be there for very long.

"Stay close," his adoptive father, grasping the handle of a suitcase, told him. "It's crowded in there."

Tim got the message and grabbed at the leather strap of Dick's luggage as the teenager looked down at him in a double take of surprise.

He wasn't nearly bold enough to reach for something else.

Mr. Wayne appeared a bit disappointed and they headed inside and through the terminals, Dick giving him a pleased grin every so often as he followed after him obediently.

Internally, Tim was cursing his decision. The boy talked to him between the security checks.

"You excited to get back to good, old Gotham, buddy?"

"Yeah."

"Dad said that you had never met that uncle before. It must have sucked to be stuck in a stranger's house for four weeks."

"Yeah."

"They haven't sold your house yet, you know. It's a hot spot though so it won't stay that way forever. We can go over and sneak in if you still want to look at it."

Tim's interest was peaked, but he kept his 'one word' rule.

"Okay."

Dick frowned at him and was about to say something more, but it was time to move forward so they both did.

There was a special section of the airport for private planes, Dick explained, and naturally the heirs to 'Wayne Enterprises' always flew with their own jet.

Tim thought that was handy.

They had to leave the building and when he saw the thin, high - _extremely _high_ -_ staircase, leading to the plane's open doorway, something inside of him panicked badly.

"You've got to be careful because you don't want to trip on the gaps between the steps," Dick reminded him, standing in front of it and about to climb.

Mr. Wayne and Jason had already gone ahead and were inside. Tim's knees trembled as he stared at the open spaces between the silver metal.

The teenager hesitated and held out a hand.

"Should we go up together? It might be better that way."

He shook his head furiously, his stomach churning.

"What's wrong, bud?" Dick asked, touching the top of his head.

"Can't...I can't."

"What can't you do?"

"Too high," Tim muttered, too scared to care if his new brother thought that he was a baby. "It's too high."

"Hmm," Dick hummed to himself. "Well, that _is _a problem, isn't it?"

He seemed to mull it over for a minute and then Tim was literally swept off of his feet. His sneakers dangled in the air as the teenager carried him - princess style.

He was understandably mortified and kicked as well as thrashed to get out of the hold. He would die, just keel over and _die, _if the two other Waynes saw him like this.

"No-_no! You don't need to - " _

_"_Oh, but it really looks like I do," Dick interrupted smoothly. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. At least your phobia is reasonable. Jason screams like a girl when he sees a worm and Dad used to be afraid of bats when they're actually kind of a cute, harmless animal if you think about it. Really, this is nothing."

Tim's eyes widened in curiosity and the words helped him to ignore the fact that they were ascending.

"What are you scared of?" he asked bravely.

"Me? Well, I've always hated horses. One kicked me in the butt when I was little in the circus - I lived there before, you know - for being a smart-ass and yanking on its tail. I still don't like them."

That sounded way too easy and he was suspicious.

"That's all?"

"There might be something else, but you have to promise not to tell anybody."

"You too," Tim countered. "You can't tell anybody about mine either."

They stopped in the middle of the staircase and Dick rearranged the boy so he could free one of his hands.

"Pinky swear?"

They hooked fingers and shook.

"Deal."

"Clowns," he whispered into Tim's ear.

"_Really?"_

_"_Really. Now, don't look down."

He squinted at the starry sky and held onto Dick's neck tightly. They reached the threshold and Dick dropped him to the floor before anyone could see it.

"Took you long enough," Jason called to them, sitting in a cushy, leather chair.

"I was just having a lovely chat with our little brother, Jay-Jay."

Jason grunted, stuck ear-buds into his ears and leaned back into the headrest. Mr. Wayne was nowhere to be seen.

"Come on - we're going to have dinner soon, Tim. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

He sat next to the fifteen-year-old and, after a while, a deck of cards was placed on the armrest between them.

"Are you quick with numbers?"

The time before takeoff was spent teaching Tim the rules of an old Romanian game while Jason, his lips twitching upward every time the boy mispronounced the name of a card or accidentally showed the lay of what he had by turning his wrist, watched out of the corner of his eye.

The food did come just before they were up in the air and, when it did, it was obviously gourmet.

During this time, Tim had entirely forgotten about the former guidelines that he had devised for himself and Richard Wayne enchanted him with his irresistible charm.

Jason nodded off four or five times and Dick snickered to himself quietly when the boy jerked himself awake with his jaw wide open.

Eventually, they stopped with the poker and Dick crossed his muscular arms to nap as well.

Tim tried to close his eyes, but there was too much energy in his system - he almost thought that it belonged to the older boy and some of it had been transferred to him so that Dick could take a break for once.

The door from the other compartment opened and Tim instinctively feigned sleep.

Heavy footsteps padded across the room and there was a load groan that sounded like it had come from Jason.

Finally, a door shut again and his eyes snapped open.

It was time to figure out what the thirteen-year-old had not said. He dropped to a crawl on the floor after checking that Dick was thoroughly knocked out. Sneaking through two other rooms, he discovered that they were empty and that the duo had traveled farther away than he had thought.

He pressed his ear flat against the crack in the wood that he was certain separated him from the area where the father and son had gone. After straining his hearing for a while, the voices were raised enough that he could understand and he immediately picked out the thunderous, intimidating one as Mr. Wayne.

"Such a _reckless, _stupid thing to do -"

"You should have seen this guy. He was a real thug - there was no way that he wasn't going to do something with it."

"You were a _civilian_. What were you thinking? How _many_ times do I have to _drill_ this into your head?"

"Yeah? Well, who else was going to do something about it? I was protecting civilians. Isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

_"No_, it isn't. You weren't protecting anyone. You were putting yourself in _danger_ because you assumed that a random stranger you met on the street was a criminal."

"He had a switchblade – a _massive, _fancy one - in his pocket. Do you think he was on his way to carve pumpkins with it?"

" I don't know what he was going to do with it and I don't care. That isn't any of Bruce Wayne's business and it definitely isn't _Jason Wayne's_ business either."

"I had to do something. I had to -"

"Steal it? In broad daylight? No. Do you think that if he really _did_ want to hurt someone that taking away one weapon would stop him? Or are you going to tell me the truth and say that this was your way of getting live, target practice because I'm not giving you any? Do you understand why your brother and I are _furious_ with you right now?"

"I'm not finished with training, I didn't have back up, I didn't have a mask on, he was way bigger than me," Jason rattled off in a bored tone. "I've gotten the gist from Richard already."

"You don't have the authority to make those decisions - I do. You defer to either me or Dick until I think you're old enough. It was irresponsible and impulsive and that isn't a mistake that we can afford on the field. It makes me want to tell your brother that we're not going to take you into Gotham anytime soon."

There was a long, dead silence.

"You...you _promised."_

_"_I didn't promise anything."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

Again, quiet.

"Dick said this was the year. He said that I was ready now."

"We thought so too. Of course, disregarding our rules and pulling stunts like that can change someone's mind pretty quickly."

"I won't do it anymore," came the desperate pleading. "I'm sorry."

"How do I know that? You're just saying it now."

"What do I have to do?"

"Right now? Nothing. I think you expressed yourself clearly enough today."

"But –"

"As of today, I'm delaying your initiation for three months and I'm grounding you for one of them."

"Three – three _months?" _

Mr. Wayne's words were cold and precise.

"Be grateful that it isn't off the agenda permanently."

Jason huffed a loud groan.

"This is so unfair. Dick never had to jump through hoops to get approval from you. He only had six months of training and he's been 'Robin' since he was ten!"

"Dick was already a skilled acrobat, he _never_ disobeyed orders and he doesn't scare me the way you do!"

There was a heavy sigh and he spoke more softly now.

"You scare me to death, Jason. You're a wild card – I'm not sure how to trust you when I don't know what you're going to do next."

"You can trust me," the boy said quietly.

"Prove it to me because, if you can't, I don't know if I can ever give you a suit."

Tim leaned away from the door, dizzy with too much information. Did this mean what he thought it meant…?

Or was he wrong and dreaming something up?

He made his way back to the sleeping Dick, suddenly fearful that he would be caught.

* * *

When the plane landed and they left the airport, Dick made a big show of pretending to kiss the ground and thanking the heavens that they were in the beloved city while Jason rolled his eyes.

"Oh sweet, polluted air! How I have longed for your filthy, crime-infested streets, Goth-am!"

Tim was jostled as he did this because he had decided once more to stick fast to his adoptive brother's side and their hands were fastened together. There was a sudden level of closeness that had been achieved between the pair and somehow - even if the thought of conversation had terrified him a few hours before - it felt natural to relax around the teenager.

Dick wrapped one arm around his shoulders when they sat next to each other in the new car to take them home.

Tim yawned.

"Tired?" Mr. Wayne asked from the other side. "Don't worry - we're almost there."

It was noted that there was a significant space between him and Jason. Tim supposed that they had not made up as of yet.

"I wonder if Alfred made strawberry scones," Dick mused. "He promised me some before we left."

"Alfred had more important things to do than bake to your wishes, Richard," Mr. Wayne remarked dryly.

"Like what?"

"Visiting his god-daughter, fixing Tim's room, helping me with the lawsuit-"

"Alfred has a _god-daughter?" _

"Yes_. _His world doesn't revolve entirely around you, you know."

"It _doesn't_?" Dick exclaimed, looking scandalized.

Tim bit his cheek to hold back laughter and he saw Mr. Wayne looking at him warmly. The boy turned away quickly and studied the buildings passing by.

The street that he had lived on previously was comfortingly familiar even if the long, curving driveway that they pulled into was not. The manor was even more impressive and grand up close than it had been far away. Tim stared up at the sheer height of it as he stood outside.

"Home," Dick sighed sweetly, patting his head. "It's nice, isn't it?"

Tim nodded and followed him and the rest of the family up to the front steps as Bruce Wayne unlocked the great door. Dick bounded inside with hesitation, calling 'Alfred' boisterously, and Jason sat on the bottom step of the wide, humongous staircase in the foyer.

Every sound echoed to the high, embellished ceiling. It looked like something out of a movie and while his parents had been similarly wealthy the foreignness of the place unsettled him. This wasn't home for him - he didn't know these walls.

Dick came back, practically dragging the old man that he had seen before with him. They stopped in front of him and the elder of the two seemed out of breath.

"This is Tim," Dick announced excitedly.

"I can see that, Master Richard," the old man said, wheezing.

Both of the boys gave him a minute to collect himself.

"How do you do, young man," Alfred greeted with a smile, shaking his hand. "I must say - I am _quite_ pleased that you are finally here."

"Pleased to meet you," Tim mumbled shyly.

"My name is Alfred Pennyworth and I am the butler of this household. If you should ever need anything - anything at all - do not hesitate to tell me."

"It's okay if you don't understand him sometimes - we don't either. He's from _England_," Dick stage-whispered as if this was an especially exotic country.

"Yes - very amusing, Master Richard," Alfred stated wryly. "You 'yanks' are unintelligible to me as well."

Dick's hand flew to his heart and his mouth dropped open.

"My word, Alfred! I'm offended by that term!"

"Give me a hand with these, Dick," Mr. Wayne called from where he was carrying the bags up the stairs.

The teenager hopped to attention and ran off.

"I hope you like your bedroom," the butler told him kindly. "I managed to bring over some of your knick-knacks and things from your old home before they closed it off."

"Thank you," Tim said, meaning it.

"No need to thank _me_. On the contrary, I'm going to have to thank you for bringing such excitement into this house. They've all gotten into quite a tizzy over you."

Dick was skipping up the steps while humming a tune and Mr. Wayne was smiling quietly to himself again. Jason was as unreadable as ever.

He followed Alfred as the butler gave him a brief tour of need-to-know rooms in the house. The kitchen as well as the family dining room were homey enough for such a luxurious place and he thought he could remember where they were. On the next level was the living room with Dick's video games, Mr. Wayne's study and many other sitting rooms lined with books that they passed by. An important stop as they ascended to the third was Alfred's bedroom, which Tim could go to if it was an emergency in the middle of the night, and they ignored one floor without bothering with anything in it.

Finally, they came to the main area of Mr. Wayne's, Dick's and Jason's bedrooms. The thirteen-year-old's room was farther away than the other two and somewhere in the middle was his own.

They entered and Tim was shocked by the familiar sight of his books on a clean, bright shelf along with a few wooden carvings of animals that he had been given by his deceased grandfather. The rest of the room was completely new. The navy bed was a lot larger than his old one and he touched it curiously.

"Is everything to your liking?" Alfred queried.

"Yeah - I like it a lot."

"I'm glad that is so, Master Timothy -"

He turned around and stared at 'Master'.

"- your suitcase will be here shortly and then you can go to bed. I'm sure you're quite exhausted."

Tim wasn't certain if that was a suggestion or an order - it sounded slightly parental.

"Goodnight - I will see you in the morning," the butler said and left through the door.

Tim tested the bounciness of his mattress for a few minutes, wondering if Leopold had been too cramped being stuffed in with all of his clothes. Dick and Mr. Wayne were quick and he heard them dropping off their luggage down the hallway before coming to him.

"Here ya go," Dick said cheerily, dumping his suitcase on the beige carpet. "There wasn't anything else, was there?"

"That's it," Mr. Wayne confirmed.

"Don't let the bed bugs bite, Timmy," the boy imparted before going back down the hallway.

Tim was itching to take his lion out, but he wasn't going to do it in front of the man. He waited expectantly for him to go.

"How are you doing?" Mr. Wayne asked.

Tim studied him from head to toe, imagining sharp, bat ears that protruded out of his head.

"Fine."

"I know that it's going to be weird at first, but I want you to be comfortable here. If you need anything, just ask. You know where Alfred is and Jason is pretty close by."

Tim's forehead scrunched up.

"What about you and Dick?"

The man rubbed the back of his neck and winced.

"Well, we're...we're sort of night-owls so you might not always find us in bed when you need to. That's why - it's just better to go to those two."

If that didn't sound highly suspicious, Tim didn't know what did.

"Okay."

Mr. Wayne backed up a step and leaned a hand against the doorframe.

"I'm really happy that you're here - I wanted you to know that."

It was impossible not to feel some emotion at those words. Mr. Wayne was trying to keep a serious expression, but failing miserably as he looked a little embarrassed at saying them himself.

"Anyway...sleep well."

At last, he was alone and Tim changed into his pajamas then took Leopold to bed. He thought about the conclusion he had come to while touching his stuffed animal's synthetic fur.

It all made sense - he had gone through the reasoning slowly.

'Civilians' plus 'protect' plus 'suit' equaled 'superhero'.

There were only three super-heroes that he could think of who were rumored to live in Gotham.

Jason had said 'Robin'. Robin was Batman's sidekick.

Tim didn't know much about Batman, but Mr. Wayne certainly had the physique to be him. The conversation that he had heard couldn't be construed any other way, really.

The final conclusion was that Mr. Wayne was Batman and Richard Wayne was Robin - Jason was something else. He didn't know how Alfred figured into all of this, but didn't think that such an old man could fight crime.

"We're living with Batman from now on," he whispered to Leopold. "Cool, huh?"

* * *

Author's Note: So, what do you think? Is Tim going to keep this to himself? Was Bruce planning on telling him at some point? Stay tuned for more!


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